


a place, dark and soft

by Kawa (fandomonymous)



Series: kink soap opera - a partnership, to be determined [1]
Category: Disco Elysium (Video Game)
Genre: BDSM, Gratuitous Smut, M/M, POV Second Person, now also with lewd fanart!, please suspend a little disbelief for this fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-21
Updated: 2020-01-21
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:47:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22343533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fandomonymous/pseuds/Kawa
Summary: PROBLEM: There is more to sexuality than merely who you desire and who desires you. What you do with that desire matters, what acts are done to you, what acts you do for others, what you call your partners in the process of this dance to erotic oblivion. The world is full of possibilities. Which ones do you wish for? And will you have to beg for them?Working through this in your Thought Cabinet, you find yourself in need of...something. Luckily, your partner seems uncannily able to help you.
Relationships: Harry Du Bois/Kim Kitsuragi
Series: kink soap opera - a partnership, to be determined [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1883056
Comments: 7
Kudos: 113





	a place, dark and soft

**Author's Note:**

> Please note there's now links to two quite NSFW pictures at the end, thanks to some lovely Disco(rd) folks!

Around mid-day, the thought breaks through - you've been poking at the concept of sexuality since late last night, the possibility of carnal space with another man. The conclusion of the thought stops you in your tracks - a surprise, given how much you've been running today. 

Kim looks quizzical. 

You ask the question you're afraid to ask. You get your answer, terse and simple - but positive. "Now can we move on?" And Kim turns, starts moving again, before you can say yes or no, apparently trying to make this as little a deal as possible.

No, no. You can't stop thinking about sexuality. Really, _you've just begun_. How did he shut you up so casually and thoroughly? How does that make you feel, and _why_?

[Thought gained: "DESCENT INTO SUBSPACE"]

PROBLEM: There is more to sexuality than merely who you desire and who desires you. What you do with that desire matters, what acts are done to you, what acts you do for others, what you call your partners in the process of this dance to erotic oblivion. The world is full of possibilities. Which ones do you wish for? And will you have to beg for them?

The day passes. You interview everyone you can, you run strange errands, and the whole time, this thought rattles in your head. It gets in the way of your composure and your reaction speed; you feel flustered and distracted. Desire blossoms through you - strangely, it does not mix sexual and chemical, laser focused on the possibility of the human body. The sky grows fiery bright, then dark. 

This new thought breaks through right at the end of the day, as you're giving Garte your payment for tonight's stay. 

SOLUTION: Oh, you will beg for it. You will beg for it, tied up and teary eyed, straining against cuffs. You will feel desperation. Your world will pinpoint to whoever it is looming over you and be willing to do anything, _anything_ to please their arbitrary whim. And you will love it. It will make you feel powerfully alive, yet it will make you feel the only oblivion that doesn't come from a pillbox or a bottle. It will make you feel the deepest fear, yet it will make you feel intensely safe. The question is, will you listen to what your body wants? And will you have the courage to ask?

Kim's hand is on the doorknob to his room, when you stop him. 

"Yes?"

"I want to tell you a secret."

An eyebrow quirks upwards. "Is this about that other question you asked me, earlier?" 

"Yes! Well, kind of, well, yes, well." 

You're doing great, Harry boy. Just dandy. 

"I want you. To. Uh."

There's a hint of surprise on Kim's face, but no other response. He's waiting for you to be able to speak.

Is he enjoying watching you squirm? Watching your shame? 

If he is, that's a good thing. If he isn't, well, you're you. Laugh it off. No takebacks though. But why are you having so much trouble, under his gaze?

"I want you to. Uh. Augh. You threatened to thrash me, yesterday, at Suzeranity. I want you to."

"We're not pulling out the board game again, officer." It's not a request. Kim pulls a cigarette from the inner pocket of his jacket but not his lighter; he's just twirling it in his left hand, watching what you'll do. Waiting for you. Waiting for your fall. 

Your face grows even hotter and redder, which feels like it shouldn't be possible. "No! I meant. I want...I want _you_. And I...I need..."

Finally, a smile on his face, small, enough. Like you did a good job. "Why don't you come in my room, sit down. Maybe you'll be able to talk in a bit."

You nod, a great relief washing through you as he opens the door and lets you in. He gestures to the bed, and you sit on the edge. You try to focus on your breathing as he closes and locks the door, puts the cigarette next to his ledger on the desk, takes off his jacket to place neatly on the coatrack. 

He stands in front of you, between your legs. He's not that much higher above you, but it's enough that you're looking up at him. You've never seen him without the jacket before, you realize - the sturdiness of his frame shouldn't surprise you, he's a police officer and a thousand times more disciplined than you, and yet something feels powerful and just a bit vulnerable, witnessing him in just a thin white shirt, tucked neatly in his pants. The lightbulb behind him glows bright, casting his face in shadow, making you squint to take in his features; a sodium-lit corona surrounds him. He takes your chin in one gloved hand. 

"I think I understand. A ground rule first, though. Every once in a while, I'm going to ask you for a color. If you are where you want to be, say green; if you need something to change but want to stay, say yellow; if you want to stop, say red. I will not judge you whichever color you choose. Understand?"

You take a calculated risk. "Yes, sir."

You are rewarded with a smile - he likes being called 'sir', apparently. "Good. Take off your jacket and your tie, and unbutton your shirt but keep it on."

"Yes, sir." Your hands are trembling, as are your thighs, but you manage to comply. It's really happening. He's really going to. You're going to do everything in your power to be _so good_ for him. Something miraculous is going to happen to you. The air is cool against your partially exposed chest. 

He takes the jacket and tie and hangs them on the coatrack next to his own, then digs into the pockets of his jacket. A small bottle of lubrication and RCM standard issue handcuffs come out; he puts them on the nightstand, then turns back to you, back into that position in front of and above you. 

He pulls on your shirt, into a kiss, fierce, brutal. The edges of his glasses are sharp and cold against your cheeks; the pulling of the shirt strains your shoulders a bit. You feel dizzy, trying to gasp for air but only falling deeper into the kiss. You reach up to him, trying to wrap your arms around him -

"No." He pushes you back, suddenly. "You don't get to touch me until I say so. Understood?"

"Yes, sir." 

He takes off his gloves slowly, deliberately, and tosses them over to the nightstand. (The land perfectly. You still don't understand how he does that, doing everything in his life with such precision.) You put your hands down slightly behind you, so you can lean back just a bit, and let the pressure remind yourself of what you are not allowed to do. Then his hands are on your chest, running through the hair; you relax into the sensation. How long has it been since anyone has touched you at all, let alone like this?

Just as you're lulled into security, he pinches a nipple, hard enough for you to hiss through your teeth. It sends a thrill down your spine, the sensitive skin pulled taut, the bit of pain waking up nerves you thought you had deadened.

"Color?"

"Green, sir."

That is rewarded with a matching pinch on the other side. You're panting. He's barely touched you and you're already breathless. 

He steps back, suddenly. Not very far, just enough to feel the loss from the lack of closeness. He's looking you up and down. Analyzing. Deciding whether he likes what he sees. You hope he does; you're not sure what to do to make sure he does.

He reaches forward and cups your chin again with his hand, calluses nudging against the stubble. Pulls you in, not close enough for a kiss, but enough that you cannot look away from his gaze, see yourself reflected in his glasses. His expression is stern, but there's just a hint of a hitch in his breath, the slightest sign that you're affecting him, as much as he is affecting you. (And oh _is_ he affecting you, a voice hisses through your brain, making your squirm a bit, feeling the first twitches of hardness down below.)

"So now that you've gotten to sit down, what is it that you wanted?"

Wait. You're going to have to try to _talk_? Like this? Flushed and on edge? With his face so close, _too_ close? Fuck. What are words? How? How can you possibly describe what you need? Your mouth is opening and closing yet nothing is coming out. 

"I asked you a question."

Oh god. What's the matter? Where are your words? You're usually full of words; how in the world are you out of them now? What is he going to do to you if you can't find your words? Your breath catches in your throat, your eyes go wide, how do you speak, _how do you speak_? 

The smallest grimace on his face, then his eyes go just a little wider, as if in realization. "Am I going to have to _force_ your secret out of you, Harry?"

He _never_ uses your name; it's always 'officer' or 'detective' out there, in the world, on the case. Despite your jokes about Cousteau or that drunk's ramblings about Tequila Sunset, your actual given name sounds so good coming out of his mouth, rough yet tender, the curl of the Revacholian accent biting through. 

He's right. You need him to help you. You need him, period. 

You nod, vigorously, helplessly. 

His other hand grabs your shirt, none too gently, and pulls you upright. You always thought that because you were bigger, you were the physically stronger partner - now you are not sure. He could, in fact, be stronger than you, or have some clever leverage. Or, it could merely be that he can pull you up because you want him to, you want him to have that power over you. 

He makes quick work of your belt and pants, shoving them down to your knees, then turns you around and bends you over. Thinking quickly, you reach over and grab a pillow for your head, tucking your hands under the pillow - and then you are corrected.

"Hands behind your back."

"Yes, sir," muffled slightly by the pillow. You reach your arms back, bending your elbows so your wrists are at the small of your back. (A memory, a surprise - of a picture in a textbook at the police academy, of a standing generic suspect with his arms in the same position, a thrill going through you every time you look at it while barely knowing why.)

Your weight is mostly on your shoulders but somewhat on your forehead - you're not going to be able to turn your head easily. You hear the unlocking of the cuffs, then they go over your wrists. 

A pause. A breath. 

And then.

The first spank rings in your flesh more than in the air. The sensation is muffled against your briefs - it would have been worse bare. 

You understand - it's neither of your first time, but it is your first time with each other. Limits need to be tested. He needs to be confident you can take it, as much as you need to be confident he can give it.

You can take plenty - it's possible you wouldn't want and need this so badly if you weren't able to handle it. More importantly, you trust him to give what you can take.

"Color?"

"Yellow, sir." A deep breath. "I can take more. I want more."

Your briefs are pushed down to meet your pants. Your exposed cock twitches in the air. A hand caresses your exposed bottom - ah, the gloves are back on, soft, smooth. 

The second spank is a clarion call to your senses to be present, to witness the pain and the pleasure. 

"Color?"

"Green, sir."

"Tell me what you want, Harry."

A whimper and a choked sob comes from you; a third spank from his hand, thudding into you. 

It takes so much to force the words out. "I want this, sir." You feel proud that you've managed to say this much. 

"What is this?" Another spank, ringing you like a bell.

"You spanking me, sir."

Another. Pain and desire, washing over your flesh.

"You disciplining me, sir."

Another. The flesh is getting tender, now - the sting bites more. 

"I want you, sir."

Another. Hot blood rising to skin, a sizzle of sensation.

"This is how I can be worthy of you, sir."

He pauses at that. A hand delicately strokes your back, your bottom. Affectionate. Did you catch him by surprise? He's Kim, he's _sir_ , he's unflappable and precise, there's no way you caught him by surprise. And then your body is pushed and turned so you're once again seated upright, the cheap fabric of the Whirling's bedsheets stinging against raw flesh. 

Just as you're about to say something, you're suddenly pulled into a...hug? A hold of some kind. His face is in the crook of your neck - the glasses have warmed up, but not much; his chest is just the littlest bit cooler than yours; his left arm is pulled taut around your shoulders, which are just starting to feel the ache from being held in position.

"You're doing very well, Harry." 

Something lights up in your head - praise from sir! And _touch_! Sweet heaven! A rabbit to chase, a beacon to follow! A suffuse warmth flows through you, fortified. He continues to lean against you while once again removing his gloves, this time tossing them less elegantly somewhere behind you. 

The moment of contact is over almost too soon, as he pulls away again...then you realize his left hand, fingers delicately ghosting up the goosebumps forming on your neck, then burrowing into your hair. A fist curls - a solid handful of your hair in his hand - then a pull. 

"Color?"

" _Green_ , sir," you say, eyes wide, unfocused for a second, then snapping back to his face. His smile is no longer a hint, no longer small. 

"You are going to be so fun to play with, Harry. We'll get there. Just let me take my time with it."

Of course, of course. You get to decide very little - least of all when he's ready. "Anything, for sir."

He lets go of your hair and steps over to the nightstand again. He pops open the lube bottle and pours some in his right hand, then moves back to you. He braces his shoulder against your own; slides his left hand back into your hair; and the right, well. 

The first, lightest touch of his hand on your cock, just palming it without any real friction, makes you gasp. Fuck, how long has it _been_? He chuckles. Experimentally, he pulls your hair again, which makes you moan, makes your cock pulse against his hand. 

The grin on his face is widening even more. "Do you like that, Harry?"

You nod furiously, and his hand hovers over your cock instead of touching it.

"I can't hear you. I asked, do you like that?"

Oh, _that's_ the game being played. You look in his eyes again - mirth and affection and pride, and a hint of something more dangerous. "Yes, sir, I like it." His hand is touching you again, a light stroke, enough to make you shiver but not nearly enough.

"What is it that you like, Harry?"

"I like it when you pull my hair, sir." He promptly does, sending the shiver through you again. 

"Do you want to be good for me, Harry?" He's finally starting to stroke your cock, too slow, too gentle, but god it's something, some sensation, anything sir will give you you will take and gladly.

"Yes, sir, I want to be good for you." Firmer strokes now, not rough thanks to the lube, but _intense_ , so perfect.

"Do you like it when I hurt you, Harry?"

You pause. Are you ready to admit it? He's searching your face, checking your reaction. You know, instinctively, that instead of saying 'yes' or 'no' you could say a color and have this line of questioning back down. That he doesn't need to ask you for the color, you can just give it and he'll navigate accordingly, literal traffic signals. 

You also know the truth. 

"Yes, sir. I like the pain you give me, sir." 

With that, both hands grip hard, and tears well up in your eyes. You are cradled in his grasp, you realize, pulled end to end in sensation. 

"Color?" He is studying you as he holds you, holds the sensation in place.

You take a different calculated risk. "It's green, Kim. I trust you. Please. Hurt me and hold me."

Each hand pulls and twists. The right, on your cock, stroking fiercely now. The left, in your hair, sending the nerve endings aflame, turning your head, tilting it up. He's kissing you again, a similar ferocity as before, drinking in your every breath. 

There is everything, each sensation layered above the other, an overload, a pile of radios playing different stations all at once.

Then nothing, all turned to static, a focus on nothing at all, as you cum into his hand and onto your stomach, a fierce growl from deep within you.

Then silence. His hands release you, but he stays pressed against your body. 

"How are you?" The tone is a bit different now - this isn't sir anymore, but this isn't the Lieutenant Kitsuragi the outside world sees, either. 

"Good. That was...that was very good," you say, awkwardly but without hesitation. "Don't...don't you want anything...?"

A small smile. "I'm just fine, I assure you."

"But - "

"Now, now. I gave what I wanted, tonight. I appreciate your concern, though - perhaps another time. And here." He gets up, grabs the key from the nightstand, and reaches behind you to uncuff you. You shake your wrists and roll your shoulders, a bit tentatively. 

He is suddenly a flurry of activity, mumbling something under his breath - a list? - reaching different places all over the room, grabbing this and that. The gloves are returned to the nightstand; a small towel is placed near you. A metal flask lands near your hip, as does a small plastic bag of mixed nuts and a bottle of perfumed oil. A radio comes on, you hear him murmur a number, there's static, then -

"Welcome again to Relaxed.FM", a woman says quietly. "Please enjoy our next song, 'Wading the Waters.'"

A saxophone plays a delicate tune, not a lullaby, but peaceful. Apparently he knows more local frequencies in his head than Speedfreaks.FM. 

He's in front of you again, one arm on your shoulder, the other toweling you off, gently. He leans in and kisses the crook of your neck, which makes you sigh. "I got you, I got you," he says softly into your skin, and you believe him. "Be sure to drink the water, and feel free to have the nuts. Have as much as you need." 

The flask is surprisingly cold in your hand, with a geometric pattern etched into it that you don't quite recognize. You take the flask, uncap it, and take a long sip. It's refreshing, cool from being in the metal container; you think you taste a hint of bitter orange. A mental image pops up in your head, him dropping in a little bit of bitters - not enough to actually make it alcoholic, just enough to mask the metallic aftertaste. 

As you worry your hands over the plastic bag, fumbling to open it, he moves to sit behind you, taking the oil. You smell it before you see him spread it on his hands - a custom blend, you recognize matching his daily cologne, cedar and more of that bitter orange, and a bright note of peppercorn. He reaches down your shirt, kneading at where your neck meets your shoulders, untangling the knots he made with expert hands. You'll smell like him if you wear the shirt again without washing it, you realize, and something about that concept delights you a bit. 

You chew on an almond, letting it crunch in your molars, then a cashew. He continues to massage your neck and shoulders, and presses his lips against the crown of your head - not even a kiss, so much as a way to allow for an extra point of contact. The entire sensation is one of quietly melting, all the buzz of earlier drifting away. 

After a short while, he moves back in front of you, and takes each of your wrists in turn, massaging them too. The cuffs had barely pressed into your skin, but you recognize the thoroughness for what it is, a reassurance to both him and you of your safety. 

When he seems satisfied with his handiwork, he gets your jacket and tie and places it in your lap. "Come outside for a smoke?"

You haven't heard such a good idea in a _while_. You dress quickly, double checking your jacket pocket - good, there's a pack there, one left, and a cheap lighter, you're not going to be a complete wreck - and head out the door with him, to the balcony.

You stop just behind him. He's silhouetted in the moonlight, looking out over the wreckage of the place you both call home. It's a different light than the one before in his room; colder, but not unwelcoming. He's holding his cigarette, twirling it a bit again; waiting for you. 

You approach, standing next to him, leaning over the balcony. He nudges closer, shoulder to shoulder. You take out your cigarette and make the mistake of looking at him before reaching for your lighter.

Fuck, that was good, your head swirling back to what had just transpired. _He_ was so good. Is so good. Handsome as fuck and knew what you wanted and could give it and took care of you -

In your reverie, your hand relaxes instinctively, and your cigarette drops from your hand, falling to the street below.

"...Fuck."

The look in Kim's eyes goes very quickly from exasperation to wry amusement. "Was that your last one?"

"...Yeah, it was."

Kim smirks, and leans further into you. Instinctively, you wrap an arm around him. He puts the cigarette in his mouth, reaches up with the lighter - a beautiful one, brass, a pattern matching the flask, you wonder what it means - and flicks it expertly, another practiced expression. The tiny flame lights up his face, perfectly, a portrait of poise and panache.

He looks at you. "Usually, I would offer in this particular case to let you have it for a bit. But given your circumstances and your condition, I think I'll have to improvise." He takes a long drag, careful, then tilts his head to you.

You tilt in, close as you can dare. Feel the breath on his shoulder, time breathing in as he breathes out. The taste is invigorating, sweetness and fire; whatever residual anxieties were left in your body fizzles out, burned away, leaving you light-headed and bright eyed. 

He pulls back a bit, for another drag, this one just for himself. "How are you?"

"That was fantastic," you say without hesitation. "How did you know?"

"You mentioned something to your precinct's lazareth, when you first radioed in," he says. "Something about wanting to be abused. I took it as simply being mired in your tragedy, at first, then I kept watching you. Taking strange risks for the thrill of it - breaking down the door at the bookstore, kicking that racist in the head. Like you were hunting for the sensation. Then you ask me about my sexuality, then you're unable to talk hours later. It was a simple conclusion to make."

"Did you really take notes about that?"

"Well, of course. I didn't know you; I had to figure out something about who you were. Follow the leads you're given, right?" 

"Are you sure you don't want me to do anything for you?" 

"Not tonight." He looks out to the street, away from you, taking another drag on the cigarette. "We'll negotiate that another day, if you want."

You feel there is more he won't tell you, but your words once again fail you, so you just look out with him, holding him gently, letting the moonlight wash over you.

He looks at you, curls himself tighter against your warmth, and takes another longer drag. 

You tilt in again, meeting his lips this time to take the breath he will give you, more buzzy clarity from the drug, and the indescribable perfection of his mouth against yours. 

When you separate, he looks over at the cigarette - it's nearly to the filter. He stubs it on his shoe, as he always does, and tosses it into the ashtray. 

He untangles himself from your grasp, and heads to the door, only turning to look back at you once his hand is on the knob. "Good night, Harry. Sleep well." And with that, he disappears into the Whirling. 

Well then. You'll have to do as he says, won't you? And why do you think it will be easier this time?

**Author's Note:**

> Thought Cabinet credit to @jackalsoup on Twitter; thanks as always to Disco(rd) Elysium for being supportive of this absolute gratuitous smut.
> 
> Art inspired by this fic! Click through to check them out!
> 
> [by 'Noonday Demon': hairpulling, a color check](https://cdn.discordapp.com/attachments/667948683391795210/670064712997928970/SPOILER_darkandsoft_02.png)
> 
> [by 'Jeremy | Kimland Kimpire': excellent brushstrokes make for an excellent handjob](https://cdn.discordapp.com/attachments/667948683391795210/669581611192287252/SPOILER_unknown.png)


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